


with no more intimacy than was called for

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-13
Updated: 2008-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:30:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very inspiring speech, Colonel, but I'm afraid you can't keep him." The line of Woolsey's mouth is compressed, straight, and his hands are clasped tightly in front of him on the table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with no more intimacy than was called for

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Unamaga

"A very inspiring speech, Colonel, but I'm afraid you can't keep him." The line of Woolsey's mouth is compressed, straight, and his hands are clasped tightly in front of him on the table.

"He's just a pup," John pointed out, wincing inwardly and hoping that he didn't sound as whiny to other ears as he did to his own.

"The 'pup'," Woolsey said, voice acid-bright, and man, John never thought he'd miss Elizabeth's brand of squirm-inducing sarcasm, "is already as tall as your knee. I'm sorry, Colonel, but I would be remiss in my duties as the leader of this expedition if I let you bring in an alien life form which might have needs which we are unable to provide, let alone any side effects which—"

"Hey," John says, stung, "This little guy—"

Rodney snorts, and both Woolsey and John turn their head to glare at him. Rodney holds up both hands with an expression of exaggerated deference on his face, but blessedly returns his attention to his coffee cup; he's already made his views on possible allergies which could result from extended exposure to alien dog hair very clear.

"Look." John scratches the back of his neck. "He's just... he's harmless," he manages eventually, trying and failing to find some way to describe to Woolsey why he's willing to spend twenty minutes arguing just so that a big ole pup with a wrinkled forehead and a constantly lolling tongue can stay in the city. John doesn't think he has the words to talk about how even with wide-splayed paws, the dog's mastered playing fetch quick as anything, galloping through the halls of Atlantis to bring the ball back to John; how when John comes back through the gate, he'll spring up to lick John's face with puppyish glee; how at the end of the day, he'll sprawl across John's lap, let John bury his tired hands in the dense, warm fur, and it's kind of... nice. Being wanted just for him.

It's not a feeling John's had in a while, the uncomplicated love of man-and-dog, pulling a polychrome world out of smell and texture and unbounded, unbridled enthusiasm. He'd had a lab when he was a kid—a golden one; his Mom had christened him Beau, because he was such a handsome fella—had loved Beau enough to fit every clichŽ of a boy and his dog, and Beau had adored him back. Followed him around with such patient devotion, even long after his legs had grown old and stiff, that when he'd died during John's first semester in college, John had sat in his dorm room and cried with all a seven year old's passion: fists curled up against his eyes, tears forced from him with breaths that hurt.

John hadn't had a dog since, but this little guy had picked him out, had wanted to stick with him, following him all the long way back from the village, into the tall green woods and through the wormhole without so much as a yip of dismay—this little guy had been saying 'yes' to him, had greeted him like he'd been waiting for him, and all Woolsey could say was 'no.'

He takes a breath, but Ronon clears his throat—and when Ronon decides to speak up in a meeting, Woolsey tends to squirm in his seat and listen—and says, "Had a dog like that when I was a kid."

"Oh, Mr Dex?" Woolsey's voice shades a notch or two higher; Teyla's mouth twitches at that, the left corner of her mouth curling slyly in the way that says she's hiding a sly grin.

Ronon nods and eyes the dog (who has hooked his chin over the conference table and is eyeing the sticky pastries with a contemplative air, more than a little reminiscent of Rodney) and says, "Make good hunters. Full grown, can take down a Wraith drone. Rip out its throat."

All eyes turn to look at the pup. The puppy looks back at them all with eyes of limpid brown, and one of its ears twitch. Woolsey clears his throat, looks over at Ronon, then back at the pup. "Well, that is... that is to say, that does sound persuasive. I suppose it can't hurt to have, uh, a..."

"A valuable and ecologically-sound indigenous addition to the security of our urban environment," Teyla supplies smoothly, eyebrows arching.

John has the dark suspicion Teyla regards the morning staff meeting as her own personal comedy hour.

"Yes," Woolsey says, sounding incredibly grateful. "That. I suppose that we could make an... exception, Colonel. Just this once."

John starts to thank him, but Woolsey makes a show of looking at his wristwatch and breaks up the meeting, clearly anxious not to make it even more obvious that he'd just caved and let his military commander keep the stray alien pup he'd produced one afternoon with an 'aww, shucks' grin on his face.

Woolsey scurries out, Radek and Rodney and Teyla drifting along after him. John pauses to slip one of the pastries Rodney hadn't commandeered to the pup—gone in two bites—and says awkwardly to Ronon, "Rip out a Wraith's throat, huh?"

Ronon shrugs, and John's pretty sure if there were any space in those leather pants for pockets, Ronon's hands would be jammed in them right now. "Maybe. If the Wraith was made out of sweet-bread." His eyes crinkle up at the corners, his version of a half-smile, and he nods at the dog. "That breed likes to sleep a lot. Good with kids; make for good companions."

John ducks his head, and manages to mumble out something approaching a 'thanks.' As lies go, it's not huge, and it must have been obvious to Rodney or Teyla or Radek, but this is, well... Ronon spares him the embarrassment, claps him on the shoulder and leaves John with flushed cheeks in the quiet conference room. John buries one head in the thick fur at the nape of the pup's neck, scritching just enough to earn him a small whine of happiness, and after a minute or two says, "C'mon, buddy, I know where McKay keeps the sugar."

The pup follows, close at his heels.


End file.
